Asking Why (Extra to 'Burned' Universe)
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: While chasing down a pyromaniac with a fondness for burning down museums, Clinton Jones is forced to go undercover as a prostitute when Neal Caffrey refuses, and the encounter leaves Clinton seriously questioning his sexuality and Neal seriously worried about his secrets. (Clinton/Neal, Clinton Jones POV) **Extra to my story BURNED, but STANDS ALONE**


**Title:** Asking Why  
**Author:** Puck (**pucktheperv**)  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Warnings:** mentions of underage prostitution Clinton/Neal

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**Summary:**While chasing down a pyromaniac with a fondness for burning down museums, Clinton Jones is forced to go undercover as a prostitute when Neal Caffrey refuses, and the encounter leaves Clinton seriously questioning his sexuality and Neal seriously worried about his secrets. Clinton Jones POV

_This is an "extra" from the universe of my novel-length Peter/Neal fanfic __'Burned.'__ This can stand alone so you do NOT need to have read __'Burned' __to read it, however, for those of you that have... Here's one way things might have turned out had Neal refused to play his part._ **Note that I started Burned before we knew anything about Neal's past, so it is canon only up until the third season.**

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**If you would like to read the fic this comes from, _Burned_, you can find it under this same author's name!****  
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**Asking Why**

When he started Harvard in the fall of 2001, Clinton Jones had never dreamed he'd end up standing on a cracked, broken sidewalk at one o'clock in the morning, selling his ass like it was Yankees tickets, only quite a bit cheaper.

It wasn't all that chilly outside, but Clinton shivered anyway, the sequined purple tank top and obscenely small denim shorts he was wearing not providing much protection from even the smallest breeze. Or that's what he told himself, anyway. It had nothing to do with the way that man across the street with the Hitler mustache and the leather pants was looking at him.

Clinton had never had a man look at him like that, well, not that he'd noticed, anyway. Sure, his muscular figure and handsome face had probably attracted a few gays in his days, but despite being all for Diana's right to marry Christie, he really wasn't comfortable around gay men.

Take Neal Caffrey, the reason he was stuck here on this damn corner instead of in a surveillance van or in the office break room, proudly wearing the badge proclaiming him to all and sundry as FBI, and not just in the Female Body Inspector sense. But now here he was, regulated to this hellhole while the criminal version of Frank Sinatra sat all comfy, sipping chamomile tea or whatever pretty men like Caffrey drank.

Clinton didn't care how many ladies that man banged, his gaydar went off like hullabaloo every time Caffrey stepped within a six foot zone. What kind of straight man dressed like that? Only the ones who kept more than just suits and fedoras in their closets. Hell, somedays Clinton went as far as to wonder if that Kate chick had actually been a man in drag.

It was humiliating, standing out here like this. He was a man, and real men didn't sell their butts for small bucks. The closest Clinton had ever come was during his wild days in college when his girlfriend had put her finger up there. They'd broken up the next day. Caffrey would probably like this kind of attention. The man was obviously an attention whore and a little bit of a diva, too. The sort of man that wanted to out-dress his lady so that everyone in the restaurant would be looking at *him.*

Clinton had to admit, it was hard not to look at Neal Caffrey with his perfect hair and his perfect jaw and his perfect abs and his perfect lips—Okay, he should really stop there. The point was, Caffrey was so perfect it was disgusting. And attractive. Disgustingly attractive. Hell, he was pretty sure the guy turned Diana on.

Caffrey should be the one out here, not him. Clinton had done his duty, worked hard, paid the toll. Neal Caffrey had swindled his way up the ladder with all the charms of a metrosexual conman. Yet here he was, forced to work the streets, while Neal Caffrey lived the high life.

"This is ridiculous," Clinton muttered for no reason, scuffing his boot against the sidewalk, effectively taking out a patch of grass that had begun to grow through one of the cracks. God forbid you see anything green in New York City.

"No," came Caffrey's voice, tinny in Clinton's ear, "your shirt is ridiculous. This is just sad." A pause. "So sad."

Clinton sighed, not wanting to listen to another twenty minutes of Caffrey ranting about the welfare system and helping children on the streets. He didn't know what had the man in such a piss poor mood, though he had to agree that seeing little girls in miniskirts selling their bodies was a downer. But Caffrey was really taking it to heart, like every underage whore out here was a personal offense.

Clinton never would have pegged Caffrey as a kid person. Did he like picket fences, too?

God, he wished that Caffrey had just agreed to do this part. He still wasn't sure why Boss hadn't put his foot down and made the con do it. Caffrey was obviously a better fit for the part. First of all, he could actually pass for someone in their early twenties. Second of all, he was pretty as hell. And the big winner? He looked like a fag. Clinton on the other hand? He felt like a clown, dolled up in eyeshadow and costume jewelry and he was pretty sure he stuck out like a sore thumb in this neighborhood.

Women agents ended up playing escorts all the time, so Clinton hadn't thought Caffrey would give a shit about taking up prostitution as a hobby for the night, but when Peter had presented the plan in the board room, Caffrey had practically stormed out, looking as though he'd been slapped in the face.

It was a simple enough plan. Their target, an art dealer named Melbane, was the only lead they had to a couple of bastards ripping off museums then burning them down. The fires had gotten progressively worse and, in the last one, a little girl and her father had actually died, making this case priority number one.

To get to the firebugs, they needed to get to Melbane but, unfortunately, the guy was a paranoid freak. His house was a fortress, and there was no way in except through the front door. Unfortunately, Melbane didn't open his front door for anyone. After some surveillance, however, they'd discovered that he *did* drag somebody in, once a week like clockwork. And that somebody was a whore from this very neighborhood.

With a little help from Vice, they'd nabbed the kid so that Caffrey could go in as the whore and plant some bugs. It was a good plan, at least until Caffrey had decided that he was above that sort of thing. Apparently undercover ops were fine as long as he got to be the top seller in a boiler room operation or a rich, handsome businessman. But playing a ten cent ho? Not his thing. And so it had somehow fallen to Clinton.

Clinton's biggest mistake, however, had been telling his sister, Mackenzie, about it, who had, in turn, told their father. Twenty minutes before Clinton was supposed to meet the gang, he'd gotten a call from dear old daddy saying that he had always told him that the FBI only wanted him because he was of ethnic origin and that putting him on an op like this was a perfect example of their discrimination.

What a bunch of bullshit. The truth was, his father simply wanted another reason to complain about his son's life choices. He was just using his place as chairman of the NAACP as an excuse to find anything he possibly could wrong with what Clinton did. You know, because obviously his life would have been so much better if he'd followed in his dad's footsteps, sipping expensive wine and playing a round of golf at elite country clubs while discussing what oh-so-charitable and politically correct lawsuit he should take up next. Because the media attention and monetary return they got on the settlements had nothing to do with why his father had chosen to go into anti-discrimination law.

Well, fuck that. Clinton was *not* the token black guy in the Bureau, whatever his father wanted to say, any more than Diana was the token dyke and Caffrey was the token criminal. Okay, Caffrey *was* the token criminal, but the point was the same.

Finally, already late to the meet up, he'd lost his temper and snapped, "Don't worry, Dad, they asked the fag before they asked the negro, so I guess that's enough so-called 'discrimination' for you to build a good platform against them, huh? Call me when the trial date is set." Seriously, the biggest downside of cell phones was that you couldn't slam them down when you were pissed off.

The funny thing being that his father would probably be happier if Clinton *was* a cheap whore, because then he could come up with a plan to swoop in and save him from himself, preferably in front of at least three major news networks. Heaven forbid he be *proud* of Clinton for having such an esteemed position as FBI agent.

"Hey, kid," Clinton started at the sound of the voice, almost tripping over his own feet as he turned to see a cop standing next to him. Shit, while he'd been busy hating on his father, this overweight beat cop with a donut in his hand had managed to sneak up on him. Talk about letting your guard down. Some agent he was tonight.

"Jones, just go with it," Caffrey said over his headset. "Cops who work places like this are often friendly with the kids."

Clinton frowned at that, wondering what, exactly, Caffrey meant by 'friendly'. Because he wasn't about to make kissy face with an NYPD traffic cop.

"Hey," Clinton replied when Caffrey gave no more direction, not sure what else he was supposed to do. God, it felt so awkward, standing here practically naked, dressed like he was in queer heaven. His body was stiff and his shoulders tense, hands clenched by his side.

"Don't look him in the eye, Clinton," Caffrey said, sounding a little nervous. "This is his turf. Make it clear you know that. Respect him, show him you know that it's his house, his rules."

Clinton dropped his eyes, wondering where Caffrey had gotten his PhD in street smarts. Prison, maybe? He supposed this wasn't that different from the streets in some ways. Maybe that had been why the man had been so freaked out about doing this op. Clinton didn't know anything about Caffrey's time in prison, really, and now he wasn't sure he wanted to. God, if *he* thought the man looked like a fairy, what had the guys in the slammer thought?

"No worries, son, I ain't looking to test the good," the cop said, giving Clinton a lopsided smile. Clinton grimaced at the words, holding his breath to keep from telling the guard what, exactly, he'd be doing to him if he broke that promise.

"Say thanks," Caffrey said, making Clinton grimace again.

"Thanks," he muttered, fumbling awkwardly at the edge of his shirt, trying to tug it down enough to cover him completely. "Uh… Something I can help you with, Officer?"

The cop gave a shrug. "Saw you were new, just wanted to say hi. I'm Daniels. And, no worries, I ain't interested in wasting my time hauling in kids who are just trying to survive." He raised an eyebrow. "Though I gotta admit, you're not the type we usually get out here."

"Oh, yeah?" Clinton said, doing his best to sound casual.

Apparently he was less than successful, because the officer frowned, then leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. "This is your first time, ain't it, son?"

Clinton's shoulders tightened at the words. Shit, he'd been made. Dammit! They needed to get in Melbane's place tonight, before there was another fire.

"Tell him yes," Caffrey said in a sort of soothing tone. "Tell him you fell on bad times, you owe some people some money, and that your friend told you this was an easy way to make quick cash." There was a rustling noise in the background.

"Ow! Dammit, Neal, I don't know if this is a good idea," Peter said over the com, making Clinton frown. What was up?

"It's fine, Peter. This is turning into a mess and it's my fault."

Clinton wanted to ask them what the hell was going on, but he had more pertinent things to deal with at the moment, like the man in blue standing there looking at him like maybe he'd lost his mind.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, it is, actually." It wasn't hard to look awkward and off balance considering that was how he was feeling right now. "I owe some people some money, kind of came on hard times, and I got a friend who said this was a good way to make fast cash."

The officer shrugged. "Yeah, maybe so, but it's a damn expensive profession, son. And I don't mean paying the rent at some no-tell motel. Every time you get in a man's car, it may be your last. I've seen so many boys tossed in Dumpsters like trash. And even if you never get a crazy, it puts a mark on your soul. Tonight… It's gonna be bad. Worse than you can imagine. There are other ways to make money, boy, places where you can get help."

Great. Fantastic. Clinton had managed to find the only cop in New York who wanted to be Mother Theresa when he grew up.

He opened his mouth, though he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say to something like that, when he heard a shout from across the street.

"Yo, J!" A slim figure stepped out into the street without even bothering to look, almost sending a cab careening onto the sidewalk. It was obviously a man, though Clinton couldn't really see his face. Who the hell was this?

The figure stepped into the streetlight and Clinton choked a little at the sight.

Caffrey had abandoned his light pink dress shirt with magenta tie, leaving only his undershirt, cut muscles sharply defined against the stretchy material. He had kept the hat, though it he'd tilted it at such an extreme angle that you could barely see his eyes. Clinton was pretty sure he'd put something on his lips, because they seemed to shine in the light, and his belt was gone, the top button of his trousers undone and zipper lowered enough to make his pants sag down on his hips, revealing the boxer-briefs beneath. The shoes he was wearing were too scuffed up to have come from Neal Caffrey's closet, so Clinton assumed that he and Peter must have switched shoes.

"Hey, baby…" Caffrey eyed the cop suspiciously as he moved toward Clinton, sneaking an arm around his waist. "What you up to?"

Clinton gritted his teeth at the feeling of Caffrey's arm, tight around him. Caffrey's hand began to rub idly along his stomach, something he had no doubt the man found very amusing.

"We were just talking," the cop answered for him, a note of warning in his voice. "Nothing wrong with a little chat."

"No," Caffrey said, ignoring his own advice from earlier in favor of glaring at the cop. "Nothing wrong with a chat. But I think me and my boy here would prefer to chat alone from now on, if that's okay with you."

The cop shifted, eyes narrowing a little at Caffrey before moving back to Clinton. "How about you, son? You interested in chatting alone with your 'boy' there?"

Clinton cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. "Uh—"

"Because you don't have to be here if you don't want to, son." The cop looked at him meaningfully. "This isn't the only way."

Caffrey gave a rude snort. "Look, he isn't interested in your life lessons, and neither am I, okay?"

The cop raised his eyebrows at that. "I'm just saying, kiddo, and this goes for you, too… There are other ways. You could live a better life."

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned in life: It goes on," Caffrey snapped back.

Clinton started to sigh in relief as the man released his waist, then tensed up again when he realized that Caffrey was now pressing up against him, back to Clinton's chest, like he expected the agent to wrap his arms around him.

Clinton did, because it would look off if he didn't, but made a note to dump the coffee pot in Caffrey's tie drawer one of these days. He gritted his teeth as the con's ass practically ground into his groin, wondering if Caffrey realized he was doing it or if it was habit. A very gay habit.

Twisted or not, he was going to have to look up that man's prison records one of these days, see if anything involving grinding had gone down.

"Robert Frost."

Clinton frowned at the officer. "Excuse me?"

The cop eyed Caffrey, a strange look on his face. "Your friend there just quoted Robert Frost."

Oh, shit.

Caffrey's fingernails dug into Clinton's arm. "How the hell do you rob frost?"

"Oh, don't play stupid with me, boy." The man squinted. "I swear, I've seen you somewhere." He paused, his eyes widened and he let out a little whoop. "Oh my God, you're No-Name Neal!" A huge smile spread across the man's face. "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how!" He gave a huff of laughter. "You remember that one? You were always quoting it at me."

Clinton grimaced as Caffrey's fingernails dug in even deeper.

"Frederick Nietzsche," Caffrey said softly. "Oh my God… Officer Daniels?"

The grin on the cop's face faded as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a look of pain. "Neal, what happened? I thought you got out. You were always so smart, way too good for a place like this. It's been what, over a decade? I was so sure you'd gotten out…"

Was that actually a tear in the cop's eye? And why was he blabbering on about Caffrey getting out? The only thing Clinton was aware of him escaping was prison.

Caffrey shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I did for awhile. Then… then I got sent to prison. And now, well," he gestured around, "I guess I'm back here. And this is my friend, J."

"Nice to meet you, J," the officer said, though he didn't sound like he really meant it. Though he wouldn't, would he, being Mother Theresa and all. Clinton had to agree with him on that one. It wouldn't ever be nice to meet people on this street. "Wow, Neal. I…" The officer shook his head like he was trying to clear it. "Wow."

"Look," Caffrey said shortly, "it was good to see you and all, but J and I really gotta work, you know? Nothing ever comes to one, that is worth having, except as a result of hard work."

"Booker T. Washington," Clinton said without thinking, cheeks warming as Caffrey turned his head to look at him in surprise. "My dad is big on African American studies," he said, before realizing how fucking Ivy League that sounded. "He's, uh, studying for his GED. Now that he's learned to read and all. In Riker's. Yeah." Clinton had to hold back a smirk. His dad wanted to imply that he only got his job because they needed a token black man in every office? Well, fine, the man could damn well simmer in an ignorant racial stereotype himself for awhile.

"Anyway, Officer," Caffrey said as he turned so that they were facing one another, "it was nice to see you." Caffrey looked a little pained. "But, if you don't mind…" Clinton jumped as Caffrey's arms wrapped around his neck. "…My boy and I have things to discuss."

Without warning Caffrey pressed his lips against Clinton's, kissing him deeply. As in *very* deeply. As in, if the fucker didn't remove his tongue immediately, Clinton was going to bite the thing off. Totally. Absolutely.

Clinton grabbed Caffrey's waist, yanking their bodies together, hands rubbing up and down the man's back. What the fuck? Had he really just done that?!

"Mmm," Caffrey moaned in his mouth, drawing back just enough to suck on Clinton's lip for a moment before he pressed his tongue back in.

Oh, God, what the hell was he doing? And why the hell was his dick getting hard?!

"Okay, okay, I get it," the cop said with a sigh. "You boys be safe."

"Always," Caffrey said as he pulled back, sounding a little out of breath. His eyes were twinkling in amusement, but all Clinton could think was that he had to get the fuck out of there, right now.

He shoved Caffrey away hard enough to make the man stumble, then took off down the street.

o o o

Clinton stared down at his scuffed sneakers, though he wasn't really looking at them. He'd been sitting here on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, for the last hour. He stunk like hell from the sweat that had soaked through his shirt during his five mile run, but he couldn't dredge up enough emotion to care.

He'd been like this for over a week now, walking around feeling hollow, like some kind of zombie. Nobody seemed to notice, not even his father, who was always scouting his son for any sign of weakness, and Clinton wasn't sure whether to be happy or hurt about that.

After his epic failure playing street whore last week, he'd been assigned to desk duty until the end of the month. Apparently running off in the middle of an op was not appropriate behavior for a federal agent, though honestly Clinton suspected his dressing down from Peter had a lot more to do with his endless obsession with Neal Caffrey than about what Clinton had done. Caffrey, after all, had been forced to do the job in his place. Poor, poor Caffrey.

That wasn't the big problem, though. The big problem was that, since that night, Clinton hadn't been able to take his eyes off the beautiful, lanky bastard.

Clinton sighed, sitting up then collapsing back on to the bed, studying the popcorn ceiling above him. Neal fucking Caffrey, man of the hour, every single hour, every single day. Practically everything the man did was illegal, yet it was like he could do no wrong in people's eyes.

Clinton bet his father would have enjoyed having Caffrey for a son. They were a lot alike, with their oh-so-deep-and-philosophical views of the world and their high society ways. Even the fact that Caffrey was a convicted felon probably wouldn't have bothered his father. After all, forgery was an *art*, and heaven knew his father thought highly of art. He'd paid a fortune for the picture in his office that looked like a fourth grader had painted it.

Oh, God, and don't even get Clinton started on Peter Burke. The man was flipping obsessed with Caffrey. Clinton wasn't sure if he actually knew it or not, but he was. If Caffrey had been a woman, Clinton would have said Peter was smitten. Of course, if Caffrey had been a woman, then Peter would probably have been written up for being inappropriately close to his CI by now. Caffrey obviously played the man like a fiddle, coaxing the renowned agent into committing petty crimes and generally screwing over his own beliefs. Of course, it was hard to refuse someone who exuded the kind of confidant swagger that Caffrey did, especially when combined with that pretty face.

Neal Caffrey deserved to be the one who played the whore, because he was a whore. He flirted with everyone to get what he wanted, using his conman skills to woo people who would otherwise never even *think* of being attracted to someone like that. Peter being the prime example. He was like a goddamn snake charmer to straight men. Clinton hoped that El knew how her husband acted around Caffrey. She was a good woman and he wouldn't want her to get hurt.

Hell, maybe that was even how Caffrey had survived in prison, sleeping around with the big dogs while their wives waited patiently at home for them to be released. Okay, that was probably pushing it a little far. Clinton seriously doubted that Caffrey would have instigated any relationships in prison seeing as his mere existence seemed to draw men in like moths to a flame.

There just was something about him, something almost magical. Wasn't there? Of course there was. There had to be something about him, *had* to be, because if it wasn't Caffrey, then it was Clinton, and that wasn't happening.

He needed to put this in perspective. One kiss did not a homosexual make. And if his body had reacted, it was only because of the fucked up situation he'd been in. He'd been vulnerable, a do-gooder cop on one side and a bunch of nasty looking men eyeing him like candy on the other. He was not gay. No way. He loved women. The whole 'can't take your eyes off of me' thing that had been going on with Caffrey since the op? Just a phase.

Clinton started as he heard a banging on the door. Who the hell would come see him at, he checked his watch, nine o'clock? Didn't they know this was the time he went through his daily routine of convincing himself he wasn't a fag?

With a sigh he stood, making his way to the living room of his apartment. He pulled back the latch, yanking the door open then immediately slammed it shut again.

"Jones," came Caffrey's voice, slightly muffled by the door between them. "Please, let me in, okay? I need to talk to you."

"Last time I checked, my apartment wasn't in your radius, Caffrey," Clinton said roughly. "How about you mosey on back before twenty squad cars descend on my home and wake up the old lady who lives next door?"

"I got permission," Caffrey replied. "I told Peter I wanted to apologize for being an ass on the last mission."

"Oh yeah?" Clinton replied, raising an eyebrow. "Well, apology not accepted. Get lost, Caffrey." He started to walk away when the banging started again.

"Please, Jones? I just want to talk to you for a minute, okay?"

Clinton let out a loud sigh. "Why do I get the feeling that you're not going to go away until I talk to you?"

"I can pick your lock with my tie pin and a paper clip. You should get a better lock."

"Fine, fine," Clinton snapped, twisting the handle and pulling the door open. Trust Caffrey to always get what he wanted. "You've got five minutes, then you're gone, okay, Caffrey?"

The tall, slim man gave a nod, entering the room with his usual grace, like a fucking swan turned prince turned criminal. Okay, Clinton was mixing his fairy tales, but the point was the same. He shut the door then leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest as Caffrey settled himself on the couch.

"You want to sit with me?" Caffrey asked, like this was his house and he was the one inviting Clinton in.

"No," Clinton said flatly. "You're at four minutes forty seconds now. Start talking."

Caffrey sighed, shoulders slumping a little. "Sorry. Look, Jones, I really did want to apologize for acting the way I did on the op. You shouldn't have landed desk duty. It was my fault you took off."

He removed his fedora, working the edges with nervous fingers. Clinton frowned. It wasn't often you saw Caffrey noticeably nervous.

"My head wasn't on straight that day, okay? So… I really am sorry."

"Fine," Clinton said flatly. "I accept your apology. Now how about you get the hell out of my room and I'll see you again on Monday?"

Caffrey looked up sharply, a strange look coming over his face. "No, I mean, well, look, the truth is, I didn't come here *just* to say I'm sorry, okay?"

Clinton rolled his eyes. Surprise, surprise, Caffrey wanted something from him. "Oh, yeah? Well, then why are you here, Caffrey? Best spit it out because I am tired as hell and all I want is to take a shower and go to sleep."

"Right…" Caffrey took a deep breath, then looked over at a small, framed picture sitting on a table next to the couch. "Is that your father?"

Clinton gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to talk about with Neal Caffrey was his father. Their relationship was fucked up. He didn't need a criminal mastermind to tell him that. "Yeah," he said shortly. "That's him."

"He looks nice."

"Yeah," Clinton said with a bitter laugh, "he's a winner. How about we skip to the chase here, Caffrey? What do you want from me?"

"I… I want you to keep it a secret." Caffrey was playing with his hat again, curls falling over his forehead as he ducked his head. "Before… Before I went out of the van, I pulled the wire to your mic. Peter thinks it malfunctioned, but I cut it because I didn't want him to hear me… playing that role. I mean, that's why I didn't want to do it in the first place. So all the stuff with Officer Daniels? They didn't hear it." He looked up again, blue eyes wide, and if Clinton didn't know any better he'd say the man looked desperate. "I don't want them to know."

Clinton shook his head, suddenly very confused. "Wait a second, you took out the surveillance equipment?"

Caffrey at least had the decency to look abashed. "Hey, they could still *see* us! And I had the secondary mic in my pocket. I turned it on once Melbane picked me up. Nothing happened before then that the FBI needed to hear." A smirk played on his face. "Peter was furious, though. He dumped my new bag of coffee beans imported from Europe down the break room sink. And then he got ketchup on my tie."

Clinton took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. "Caffrey, I—"

"Please, don't tell them, Jones," Caffrey cut in, face serious again. "I know we're not exactly friends, but please, can we keep this between you and me? I'll do whatever you want, but please don't tell them."

"I don't get what you want me to keep so hush hush, Caffrey," Clinton said, genuinely lost. "What, that you'd met the cop before?"

Caffrey made a little huffing sound, shaking his head in disgust. "Let's not play games, Jones. I've seen you watching me at the office. You never take your eyes off me. You never watched me like that before. Not before you knew what I was."

Clinton felt like all the air had been sucked out of him. Caffrey had noticed him staring? Oh God, if Caffrey had noticed, who knew who else had noticed? He thought he'd been discrete. Damn Caffrey and his pretty freaking face.

Apparently the other man hadn't noticed that Clinton was about to pass out, because he continued on. "I know how this goes, okay? You do me a favor, I do you one." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Or you hold it over my head for the rest of my days at the Bureau and I do you *a lot* of favors. There's more than one way to play a game. But either way, swear to me that you won't tell Peter, and we can get down to business."

Get down to business? What the hell was going on here?

"I don't know what kind of criminal shit you're trying to get me into, Caffrey, but you've got this 'game'," he made quotation marks in the air, "all wrong, okay? Unlike you, I am an FBI agent and I got there through hard word and determination, *not* because I was willing to hide evidence and blackmail people. Not everyone is a criminal like you, Caffrey. Any information I have, I report."

Caffrey stared at him with wide eyes, looking like Clinton had kicked him in the face. After a moment he stood, shoulders clenched tight.

"All right," he said, voice low. "Well, I guess we understand each other now. I'm sorry that I misunderstood your intentions."

He paused, looking off to the side, blinking rapidly like he was holding back tears before he spoke again, eyes slowly moving to meet Clinton's.

"I don't know why you think the fact that I sucked cock for money when I was a broke, desperate kid is so very, very important that it needs to be recorded for all to see," his voice caught a little, "but so be it. Thank you for letting me into your home. I'll go now. And you really should get a new lock."

Clinton stared open mouthed at Caffrey as the man reached down to pick his hat up off the floor where he'd dropped it and settled it on his head, pointedly refusing to meet Clinton's eyes.

What the fuck? Had he really heard what he'd thought he'd heard, or was he dreaming? No, he was way too smelly to be dreaming. But seriously, Neal Caffrey, master of the Armani suit and skinny tie combination had been a common street whore? It was insane! Clinton hadn't really taken the time to stop and contemplate possible scenarios for Caffrey knowing a beat cop, too busy worrying about his own damn sexuality, but even if he had, that wouldn't have been what he came up with. Some sort of con job he'd worked on the officer, maybe, but not that he had actually been a freaking streetwalker.

"Shit, Caffrey, wait," Clinton said before the man could reach door, catching him by the arm. "Wait, don't leave."

Caffrey stiffened as he looked down slowly, eyes coming to rest on the hand gripping his arm. Clinton's breath caught a little. Being this close to Caffrey after spending pretty much the entire week thinking about the man was having a disturbing effect on him.

"Did you change your mind?" Caffrey asked in a casual voice, though he was still staring at Clinton's hand like it might bite. A second later, however, he lifted his own hand, setting it on Clinton's, making the man's heart race. God dammit, why the hell did Caffrey do this to him?!

Shit, Clinton was tired of this. Dealing with the denial day after day was exhausting. He needed to figure out what was going on, get some damn closure so that he could get back to his life.

"Look, Caffrey, how about this. I help you and you can help me?" Clinton released his arm and took a step back, gesturing for Caffrey to return to the couch.

After a moment's pause the man did, though he looked much less at ease when he sat down than had the first time. His hands were kind of awkwardly clamped down on his legs, his shoulders hunched, and there was a look in his blue eyes that Clinton couldn't quite decipher.

"Okay," Caffrey said slowly. "Well, we both know what I want." He swallowed deeply, Adam's apple bobbing, then dropped his eyes, locking them on the floor. "So…" He took off his hat and began to fiddle with it again. "So, how do you want me?"

Clinton blinked at the phrasing, brow wrinkling in confusion. "How do I want you?" he echoed back.

Caffrey didn't raise his eyes, and Clinton suddenly realized the man was doing the thing he'd told Clinton to do when the cop came around. 'Drop your eyes, respect him, make sure sure it's clear you know it's his house, his rules.' His stomach turned as a really, really disturbing idea began to form in his head.

'I've seen you watching me,' Caffrey had said. 'You never watched me like that before you knew what I was.' What he was. As in, before Clinton knew he'd been a whore.

Oh, crap.

"Shit, Caffrey," Clinton said, face burning so bad with embarrassment that he felt like his skin was about to peel off from the sheer heat, "I don't mean help me out like *that*. God, that's disgusting."

Caffrey flinched at the words and Clinton immediately felt guilty for saying it like that. The poor guy had come here thinking that one of the federal agents who could easily write him a one way pass back to prison was planning to use his sad past to blackmail him into a sexual relationship. God, his week must have sucked more than Clinton's had, having to go about his day to day business thinking Clinton had gone all creeper on his ass.

"I don't mean you're disgusting, I mean it's disgusting that you thought it would come to that." Clinton shook his head, sitting down next to Caffrey on the couch. "Look, I'm going to be up front with you, Caffrey, okay?"

Caffrey nodded, still looking a little suspicious, like maybe Clinton was going to yell 'sucker!' and jump him or something. God.

"I had no motherfucking clue that you were, uh…" What was a polite word for 'teenaged whore'? "Involved in the, um, not so legal side of the sexual entertainment industry when you were younger, okay? Hell, I hadn't even thought about what that Daniels dude said."

Caffrey frowned deeply, making little wrinkles appear on the side of his mouth. "Then… then why have you been watching me?"

You knew you were dealing with a criminal when the *only* reason they could come up with for why you might be watching them was because you planned to blackmail them.

Clinton rubbed at his face tiredly. "Since we're being up front here? Because ever since you fucking kissed me, I can't stop thinking about it. Every time you walk in the damn room, it's like my eyes are drawn to you. And it's driving me crazy, because I'm not gay! Or I sure as hell don't think I am. Never seemed too gay before." He laughed darkly. "Always liked the ladies, never thought much of the gents. Then you go and fucking kiss me…" He trailed off, running a hand angrily over his scalp. "Dammit! I'm going crazy! And I keep trying to convince myself it's just you, that you have that effect on everyone, I mean, look at Peter—"

"Peter?" Caffrey cut in, a confused look coming over his face. "Peter doesn't think I'm attractive." He paused, then added, "Unfortunately."

Clinton snorted. They were both oblivious.

"So tell me, Caffrey, what do I do?" He slapped a hand down on his thigh. "What does this mean? Does it mean I'm queer? Does it mean I have a thing for you? What do I do?"

Caffrey shook his head, looking a little shocked. "Honestly, Clinton, I don't know." He shrugged. "You know when everyone you associate with is an artsy fartsy type, or at least the type who *steal* from artsy fartsy types, well, sexuality isn't really an issue. Nobody really cares… I mean, I know that I like women, a lot. Way more than I like men. But some men I really like. Usually guys who are pretty much my opposite."

"Like Peter," Clinton said, raising an eyebrow knowingly.

Caffrey actually blushed. That felt good, being able to make Caffrey blush. At least he had one good card to hold over his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Like Peter. But throwing myself at happily married heteros is not really my style. If your question is: Do I get a lot of straight men falling off the wagon for me? The answer is not really, no."

Clinton's heart sunk at that. Shit, it really was him.

"But," Caffrey said quickly, "I don't usually swap saliva samples with them, either, or spend ten minutes rubbing my butt against their crotch."

Ah, so he *had* known he was doing that.

Caffrey correctly interpreted the look on Clinton's face, tossing him a cocky smile. "Yeah, I admit, I was trying to piss off the straight laced Suit, okay? And I am sorry. I didn't think it would make you that upset."

It wouldn't have if he hadn't liked it so much.

"I still have a hard time seeing you as, well, you know, a…" God, he couldn't even say it. "…a hustler. Doing that… it doesn't seem like you."

Caffrey gave him a sad smile. "He who has a why to live can bear almost any how."

"Frederick Nietzsche," Clinton murmured, remembering.

"I have a lot of 'why's to live, Clinton." He glanced off the the side, eyes going back to the picture of Clinton's father. "I don't have any pictures of my father, because I never knew him. And the man that was supposed to play my father?" He let out a soft laugh, gaze returning to Clinton. "Let's just say he loved me too much. Way more than a father should love his son. I was young, I had no skills, it was my only option. Or so I thought. But that cop, Officer Daniels? He convinced me that I could be more. Now, I don't know that he'd be real proud of the things I've done, but he'd still be glad that I wasn't on that street corner anymore."

"Wow. So a Mother Theresa cop can help people, I guess."

Neal shrugged. "Hey, if you can save one kid, right?" He cocked his head, studying Clinton. "Look, do you want to try again?"

Clinton blinked, not sure where the conversation had gone. "What?"

Caffrey smiled at him, that thousand watt grin he was famous for. "Do you want to kiss me again, to see if it feels the same?"

God, talk about a loaded question. Did he *want* too? He wasn't sure. But he was sure he wanted to make at least some sense of the things he'd been feeling, get some sort of foothold about himself so he could stop wandering about like a fool having philosophical debates in his head when he should be catching criminals.

"Yeah," he said finally, taking a nervous breath. "Yeah, I do."

"Okay," Caffrey said softly, leaning forward.

Clinton bent forward to meet him half way, making a small sound when their lips touched. They stayed like that for a moment, then Caffrey reached out and put a hand behind Clinton's head, pulling him into a deeper kiss. Caffrey moaned slightly as Clinton wrapped his arms around the man's slim shoulders, pulling them together. Finally, after Clinton was pretty sure that Caffrey's tongue had cased his entire mouth, the man pulled away, breathing a little faster than normal.

"Well?" he said, those huge blue eyes gleaming.

Clinton let out a long breath, shaking his head. He didn't know what it meant, but he definitely had his answer. "I think you're a damn good kisser, Caffrey."

Caffrey laughed, flashing that perfect smile again. "You're not so bad yourself, Jones." He paused, reaching out to run a finger along Clinton's jaw, making him shiver slightly. "So, agent… Do you think this merits more investigation?"

Clinton's lip quirked in amusement. "I think, in my professional opinion, it probably does."

"Well, in that case, how about I give you a not-so-anonymous tip?" Caffrey leaned forward, lips brushing Clinton's ear. "That night when I kissed you? I was really turned on, too."

The End.

**If you would like to read the fic this comes from, _Burned,_ you can find it under this same author's name!**


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